


Winterfell

by WildBubblesRoam



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Ficlet, Inspired by Fanart, Originally Posted on Tumblr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-01
Updated: 2015-11-01
Packaged: 2018-04-29 11:38:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5126099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WildBubblesRoam/pseuds/WildBubblesRoam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa Stark agrees to leave King's Landing with Sandor Clegane, traveling back to her family's home, Winterfell. This story/scene takes place after that journey, as they first approach their destination. [Just a short little ficlet inspired by the attached fanart.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Winterfell

 

 

 

 

_(Work inspired by the fanart above)_

* * *

 

 

“Is it not as you remember it, little bird?” Sandor asked as Lady Sansa paused in her steps. In the distance, through a squint and a heavy haze of fog and lingering smoke, was the ashed remains of Winterfell castle. Though the tall stone towers survived somewhat intact, and by the grace of the Old Gods, the sacred Godswood had been spared the carnage as well, the rest of her family's beloved home was a charred, crumbling mess.

 

Sansa shook her head quietly, the words of her reply dissolving away into a pained silence as her throat tightened. _No_ , she thought. _Winterfell is not the same._ Her family would not be there, waiting to welcome her home. Lady, her precious direwolf would not prance up to the old castle's gates beside her, gently urging her forward, as it should have been. As it might have been, if only...

 

Her eyes pinched closed, willing back the tears that dampened them as she thought of what Winterfell meant to her now. It no longer meant family. It no longer meant home. It meant renewal, rebirth. She would take claim of the charred castle and all that remained of her childhood home, for there must always be a Stark in Winterfell.

 

As if the spirit of her late direwolf had sprouted from the strength of her memories and materialized right there with her, Sansa swore she could feel the warmth of her devoted wolf beside her. It had been an exaggerated daydream, surely. Nothing more than a desperate longing for the comfort and love that those in her memories could no longer give her. Yet when Sansa felt that familiar warmth slowly become physical contact, a gentle brush against her side, her eyes opened.

 

“Little bird?” Sandor, the Hound, had moved to stand beside her, alarmed by her sudden upset. The rigid metal of his armored shoulder lightly grazed the fabric of her traveling cloak as she turned to see him. He peered back at her, eyes dark in coloring yet filled with a radiant concern. His hand lifted between them, a small piece of cloth held loosely between forefinger and thumb. “You're alright now, little bird.” The armored man tenderly assured her, the cloth daintily blotting just below her eyes where the first pair of tears had broken free from her lashes.

 

Their journey from King's Landing to Winterfell hadn't been a short one, leaving their days filled with enjoyable conversations and their nights matched by just as pleasant comforts. She had seen him change— this burnt, ruined man. He had been rebuilt during their long travels, leaving behind the ash and hardened, scarred surface that had once been all she cared to know of him.

 

Now, as he finished drying her tears and tucked the spare bit of cloth out of sight, Sansa saw nothing left of the Hound, the King's brutish dog. Instead, she saw the kindness he had shown her as Sandor. She saw the protective nature that had kept her safe all the way from the heart of the Red Keep to where she stood now, just beyond the walls of Winterfell. Though there was something else, something deeper than his kindness or his generous shelter. As Sansa rose her hand to cup his face and brushed the pad of her thumb against the rough, uneven skin of his cheek, she saw no shame, no fear in his eyes as if anxiously waiting for her to pull away in disgust.

 

For she would not. Her eyes fluttered shut once more as her kiss fondly reached his lips, giving sanction to his abrasive, war-weathered hands as they smoothed acquisitively down her back and settled possessively at the curves of her waist. He would escort her to the ends of the earth and back again, if only it meant he would have her affections for just that little bit longer.

 

Yet as their embrace distanced, their hands still intertwined at the fingers but their tastes returning to that of their own, his thoughts fell back to their final destination— Winterfell. He promised he would take her there, take her back home, and now that his end of the bargain had been nearly fulfilled, it left him wondering what worth to her he could possibly still claim. She could cast him aside, thank him for his generous assistance and rebuild her family's crumbling castle all without him. The people of the North would come to her aid, take her as their rightful Lady of Winterfell and help her rebuild. She didn't need him, not once they passed through her home's front gates.

 

“You're home now, little bird.” Sandor stated duteously, the transparency of his dejected concerns evident in his stiff proclamation.

 

Her response was mute, a silent extended glance back over to the ruined castle ahead of them. It wasn't home, not like it had once been, but that would change. Much like the once hardened, burnt, neglected man beside her, Winterfell would be rebuilt and given new life, one filled with joy and love. With a reassuring squeeze of her hand around his, Lady Sansa corrected him. “No, this isn't home yet, but it will be, someday. Will you help me make it a home, Sandor?”


End file.
